Page 150 of Jayson
Sloppy at first, but once the drugs wore off and the adrenaline hit, he started talking. Because deep down, Richard Maddox was a coward. A man who made a career of silencing the powerless, of trading innocence for influence, of bending justice until it snapped.
And now? Now he sang like a canary choking on its own blood. He gave us judges, corporate CEOs, police brass, even a priest or two.
High-profile names. The kind with foundations and streets named after them. Names we recognized. Some we didn’t.
It wasn’t just that he covered up the Aviary’s existence—it’s that he enabled it. He protected it. Funded it. Streamlined it.When girls were reported missing, he buried the warrants. When raids got too close, he redirected federal eyes. When victims clawed their way to safety, he slandered them.
We had to sit there, cold and silent, through every fucking name. Every ruined girl. Every dollar transferred. Every life broken.
And still, Maddox clung to hope. Like maybe if he said enough, we’d let him go. Let him crawl back to whatever rock he slithered from and live out his days quietly in exile.
But this wasn’t a negotiation. This was an execution. And Scar? He made sure it counted.
He started with the fingers.
A blade. A hammer. Something else I didn’t recognize. I didn’t ask.
Every time Maddox screamed, Scar smiled wider.
“Think they screamed like this?” he asked softly. “When your men stuffed towels in their mouths and zipped them into duffel bags?”
Maddox wept. Kanyan witnessed. I watched. Not because I needed to. But because I wanted to.
Because every cry that ripped from Maddox’s throat was an echo of what Keira couldn’t remember. Or maybe didn’t want to.
Somewhere in the middle of it, he started praying. To who, I’ll never know. Scar spat at his feet.
Eventually, we had enough.
Kanyan stepped forward, cool as death, and slipped a syringe into Maddox’s neck.
Sedative first. Then gasoline. We lit the match together.
Watched the flames take him. Watched the sins peel off his bones. Watched the man who played with girls’ lives burn like garbage.
No one came looking.
The fire was staged. The body? Gone before the fire evertouched it. The remains we left behind were fake—bone fragments. Burned IDs. The townhouse explosion would explain the mess.
The press ran with it.
Gas leak. Old wiring. The tragic end of a respected officer. But then the leaks started. Just enough. Audio files. A breadcrumb trail. A whisper of corruption that reached just far enough to ignite curiosity, but not suspicion.
Saxon released the rest when the press reached a fever pitch. He dropped evidence like ash from a lit cigar—casual, intentional, devastating.
The story hit the news cycle hard.
Maddox complicit. Bishop involved. The Aviary confirmed.
The city gasped. And then it moved on.
Because when monsters fall, people look the other way. No one wants to know how deep the decay goes. Only that someone finally cut the head off the snake.
And Keira? She sleeps through the night now. No more night terrors. No more bolting awake, gasping for breath like she’s drowning. No more flinching when doors slam.
She laughs in the mornings. Softly. Smiles when she’s making coffee. Sometimes sings when she thinks I’m not listening.
And when she reaches for me in bed, it’s not out of fear. It’s not to be held back from the edge. It’s because she wants me there.
